


Let Me Climb Your Steps

by Autodidact, jentaro



Series: Leto Does Podfic [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Author is trans, M/M, Podfic, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes, Trans Male Character, can perhaps be read as light dubcon, light pregnancy kink mention, peter said fuck work, this fic is some of my sluttiest work, this is extremely slutty and sort of sacrilegious, trans peter rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jentaro/pseuds/jentaro
Summary: "Imagine yourself a sun pyramid draped in green vines. Let me climb your steps and worship the brilliant, blinding sky from above the treeline. Tell me, what names have been whispered at your altar? What languages would you like me to use when I whisper yours?"Kerry Banazek, "As an Experiment"
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Series: Leto Does Podfic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890415
Comments: 18
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> car made of heresy hits a wall made of religious devotion but the car was reinforced with diamonds and is a smug bitch always who just wants to get under the brickwork of the wall that is a devout priest. can this salacious demon (car) persuade an untainted priest (wall?) to abandon all that he has ever known to live a life of sin?
> 
> — 
> 
> you can find me on twitter @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen on tma/side aaaaaand on tumblr @jennyloggins
> 
> __
> 
> chapter 2 contains a podfic recorded by [Autodidact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact)! it's some of the sluttiest stuff I've ever recorded. check it out.

The door closes quietly on the other side of the booth, the soft click of the latch echoing loudly in the otherwise silence of the church. Peter has been sitting in here for _hours_ , listening every so often to the troubles of old women who said something untowardly about a neighbor or the occasional child who stole some food and was caught. Stupid, mundane problems and gossip that bores Peter nearly to tears every time Confession is happening. 

Now though, with the sun setting and the light fading from the windows, it is dark inside the booth, only the faintest bit of light from the small, opaque panes of glass on the door illuminating the other side. His own is cast in darkness, and with it, a shiver goes up his spine when he hears the other occupant say in a rich, velvety tone, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

It is the same man that had cornered Peter after mass a week prior, who had asked him all manner of questions about the faith in the most infuriatingly mocking manner possible. He had encroached on Peter’s space more than once until he was backed up into the podium with nowhere to go, so he had excused himself. Ever since though, Peter had seen the man all over, looking at him. Staring with devious intent. If this is a game, Peter will push back and make it known that he is _not_ going to be intimidated. 

Clearing his throat, he says, “May God the Father of all mercies help you make a good Confession. How long has it been since you last Confessed?”

“This is my first confession, Father. I have _so_ much to confess for, but I am afraid that God will not be able to forgive me for what I think about,” the tone of the stranger is teasing, almost like he is pouting. 

Gritting his teeth for being mocked again, Peter takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, not wanting to rise to anger. “As a child of God, He understands that all sins are the nature of mankind, of _human beings_. If you accept Him as your one true God, all will be forgiven, and you will be saved from the fires of hell.”

There’s a quiet chuckle from the other side, hidden a moment later by the stranger clearing his throat. Peter can feel himself begin to sweat, nerves quite suddenly on end and feeling wholly _watched_. “Oh, _Father_ , some sins are much too great for God to forgive, but I suppose I will give it a try if you think I can be _saved_.”

“Then Confess, and the Lord will show you His mercy.” The feeling gets worse, and the booth is becoming warmer as the moments pass. He can feel _something_ , an unnatural energy passing through him that makes him readjust his seating. 

“Father, I think about claiming a man for my own, to keep and to possess, to hold his life in my hands. I think about fucking him deeply every single night, bringing him to the edge of bliss and denying him over and over again until he _begs_ me to let him orgasm. I think about breaking him, making him dependent on me because I’m the only one who can make him feel good. I want to _ruin_ him with my cock, I want to mark him with my semen and fuck his throat and tear him out of the hands of his faith. I want to destroy his belief in God—I want to _be_ God to him. I want to be worshiped, Father, I want to spend hours kissing and touching him, I want to beat him until he bleeds, and I want him to _beg_ for more. Father, I want to wed him before Satan himself, I want to get into his head and never leave, even when he wants to reach through this screen and choke the life out of me—”

“ _ **Enough**_ ,” Peter says in a forced, ragged breath, heart racing, mouth completely dry. It takes an extended moment of silence, broken only when he pants quietly to try and compose himself. “I think God has heard enough.”

“I don't think he has, Father, I think God wants to hear more,” comes the smug reply, Peter jumping when hears and just only sees the Confessor scratching lightly at the wicker screen between them. 

There is a surge of unease that pulses through Peter, shaded with a lust so overwhelming that it feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. His face is burning up, feeling scrutinized and _seen_. Horribly, annoyingly seen. 

“G-God can find it in Himself to forgive you, as you are his beloved son—”

He is cut off by a huffed noise of irritation, “I want this Divine servant to find me within himself. I want to lay him down on my bed and look at him, and I want to memorize every little detail with eyes, and my hands, and my lips, and my _tongue_. Father, I want to _taste_ him.”

The wet crackle of this wicked temptation of a man dragging his tongue up the divider, shifting the fibers of the weaving, makes Peter bite back a noise that he desperately wished hadn't been made out of curiosity. Despite the unease, never had he had a reaction so strong to pleasures of the flesh. Nothing he couldn't handle, either way. It has to _end_ though.

“Then we must pray for you,” loosening his collar, Peter takes in a breath before shakily starting, “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.”

“I want to taste his mouth, and i want him to get addicted to me. I want him to want me more than _air_ , can’t breathe except for when he's around me.”

Peter squirms, opening his coat as he continues with his prayer, “I detest all of my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee—”

“I want to put a collar on him and tie him up at the end of my bed, and I want him to thank me, _Father_ , I want him to drink me like I am water. I want to fill this man up and,” there is a thud on the other side of the wall, making Peter jump again, “I want to make him _whole_.”

“—my G-God, who are all good and deserving of all of my love.”

“I want to love him, and he will _revere_ me.”

“I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen,” The rest comes out as if it is painful to keep talking when he feels like a fire is burning him inside and out. 

“I want to make him wet by the very thought of me. I want to see him swell with our _children_.”

Peter moans an embarrassing sound, freezes, and then starts, “God will—”

“I want to fuck you, Peter,” it sounds like the voice is coming from inside his head, because it is _all_ he can think about. Horrifically, thoughts of himself on his knees with this _demon_ behind him, eating him out until he can't keep himself propped up and collapses. 

Visions of getting corrupted, of getting fucked on an altar of God, of making love with a beast with hundreds of eyes, gently kissing the creature… All things that make Peter need to get out of here before—

“Before you submit to me, perhaps? Father, I will make it feel so good. Your God makes you lot so miserable, advocating for pain on a promise of a better life? I can show you how to harness that pain, achieve something much greater than _this_. I can give you power, Peter, and all it will cost you is your heart and your _soul_. Bind yourself to me, let me build you a chapel to praise me in.”

The door in the other booth opens suddenly, Peter freezing as he hears the footsteps against the floor outside rounding over to his door, which then opens. That man who had been tormenting him for days steps inside, closing the door as he fixes him with a lascivious stare. As if he can see right through him—

“I _can_ see all of you, Father. How you are dripping wet and desperate for me,” he says quietly, closing in on him and kneeling in the cramped space by Peter’s legs. “I thought you men of God were much weaker than this, but you are much more resilient than I imagined. Do you want me to touch you? I’m here for you, let me,” and the man parts his legs as he cuts himself off, pushing his face against Peter’s knee. He inhales deep, nuzzling gently a few inches up on his thigh from behind layers of clothing. “You smell like you want me.”

“You must stop,” Peter says weakly while failing to push him off. He makes the mistake of looking down, eyes burning with lust staring up at him. “He who conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.”

“Oh, Proverbs 28:13 now? I can quote a book too, but no book will ever make you feel like you could with my tongue on your skin,” it's punctuated with another obscene lick, this time up the seam of his trousers. “One of my favorites is Romans 1:26-27: For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions.” Kissing once up further on his leg, he continues, “Their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural, and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another,” pausing and laying another kiss, then finishing, “...men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in their own persons the due penalty for their error.”

Peter moans quietly in his throat, grabbing onto the side of the booth with his hand as this devil’s tongue dragging up the front of his trousers. The other grabs the man’s hair and tries to pull him off; his heart is beating so hard that it feels like it may explode out of his chest, body hot all over and wracked with a thorough, _complete_ shame. There's plenty of guilt to be had, trying desperately to not give in to this feeling.

When the demon’s tongue retreats, Peter breathes a sigh of relief. He is afforded a moment to calm down as he grips the man’s hair tighter in his fist. “You will not win me over, I am stronger than you in my faith.”

He gets a condescending pout in return, and Peter takes him by the head and bashes it into the side of the box. To his absolute _mortification_ , the demon moans, following it up with an absolutely _wicked_ little laugh. “Oh, _Father_ , do that again, _please_ , in the name of our lord J-”

Peter does it again to try and shut him _up_ , grinding his face into where there is an adornment made of wood detailing. His cheek catches slightly on a wayward nail, dragging across the flesh and making a thin line of blood well up. Another moan catches Peter off guard, the demon turning his head and nuzzling against Peter’s wrist. He's quick, catching Peter with his clawed nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve and pulling it back so he can lick the sensitive spot on his wrist. 

It feels _good_ , sinful and wet, a hot puff of air against his skin as the mouth moves back making Peter shiver again. “I want to do that to every inch of your body,” he says as he cradled Peter’s unwilling hand against his cheek. “I want my name on your lips. I can tell you my name if you want.”

“No,” said softly, panic now setting in as his body freezes up. 

“All you have to do is ask.” And with that, he dips his head back between Peter’s thighs, burying his nose in the wet patch he'd made with his tongue. The beast moans again, and Peter renews his grip on his hair, trying to tug him away. Trying, and failing immediately upon that tongue soaking more spit through the fabric of his trousers. It is _humiliating_ , feeling the tip of that tongue push against the seam, as if trying to go through. This time, Peter is frozen when he feels his clothing get rumpled up so the demon can get at his belt, undoing it methodically and leisurely.

He makes an embarrassing sound as his pants and briefs are pulled down in one motion, then tries to cover himself with his hands. The demon pulls down the legs of his pants until they hit his shoes, kissing Peter’s thigh, his calf, then his ankle as the shoe is removed and the trousers pulled completely off that leg. Which leaves Peter with his hands over his cunt, trying not to feel embarrassed by the velvet cushion beneath him soaking up the wetness dripping from him. 

His monster kisses back up his leg, up to his knee, and his thigh, pushing his tongue through his lips to touch skin. There is a horrible, awful moment where Peter’s fingers curl inward, causing a jolt to go through him. 

It makes him moan.

It makes him _squirm_.

It makes his hips push out far enough for the blood on the demon’s cheek to smear across his fingers.

“Taste it.” It’s a command, one that Peter can't help but give into.

Bringing his fingers up in front of himself, he looks at the blood on them and at the slickness smeared on his fingertips. As soon as they hit his tongue, he closes his lips around it, tasting his own heady self along with the metallic coppery tang of blood. 

It makes him say, “Please.”

“Please _what_ , Peter? I need _specific_ instructions.”

Swallowing dryly, he looks down at that grinning face and feels like he's going to _burst_ if he doesn't give in. It is a bittersweet defeat, some sort of metaphor for evil winning over good brewing in his head that he has no desire to articulate. “Taste me.”

The foul man sits back on his legs in this horrible, cramped closet of a space, giving him the most infuriating look. “Peter, I don't talk to strangers. You don't know my name.” Even still, he uses both hands to spread Peter’s legs wider, smoothing up his skin until his thumbs come to rest just far enough away from his labia to feel the heat coming from his hands. 

“What do you want from me?” A dumb question asked with shaking breath, considering he had heard this beast take confession.

“Aren't you tired of praying to someone who refuses to answer you back. Who promises you a better life in the next one while subjecting you to all manner of abuse and hardship? I can show you how to live for yourself. You are told that this is a sin,” he punctuates it by using his thumbs to spread Peter _wide_ open, just looking.

Peter makes another embarrassing moan, can feel the flush creeping down his entire body at this point from the mortification. “Your ruler brings eternal pain,” the words are bitten out, Peter putting in one last attempt to save himself from this.

“And your God expects total obedience under threat of eternal punishment, but who was the one who cast mine out? Who decided that chasing our deepest desires is a sin? Do you feel whole when you're alone, praying to your God and hoping for an answer? You get ignored and brush it under the rug in the hope you will win his favor. But the truth is, he doesn't care about you Peter, not like I do. He wants you to be miserable until you die, and I want to cherish you _now_.” 

They knock together in the space as the man stands, only momentarily before putting one knee on the chair between his legs and getting in close to his face. Peter feels like he can't even _breathe_ , panicking more the closer the demon gets to him before he can't feel anything at _all_ , the gap between them closing with their lips. His own are chapped, bitten from worry and nerves, but the pair against his are _unrighteously_ soft. 

Peter is being kissed, and he moans into it, opening his mouth to the gentle prodding of the demon’s tongue and feeling positively _ignited_. Grabbing the front of the demon’s shirt, fists getting a generous handful of fabric, he weakly tries to shove him off only to pull him closer. He can feel himself giving in, tasting _heat_ and feeling every bit of desire pouring into him and warming his bones. 

And it doesn't feel _wrong_. It feels _good_ , and _right_ , and every synonym in the book for it. Peter feels _cherished_ , being kissed tenderly while his face is held. When the man pulls back, Peter breathlessly tries to follow for a moment before realization comes back to him. 

“Ask me my name, Peter. And I can give you _so_ much more. I can take away your guilt and replace it with better feelings. Why serve someone who judges you for your every action and leaves you without direction except for absolute obedience. He tells you that you are to expect eternal pain in Hell, but what is pleasure without pain?” 

His knee suddenly pushes right up against Peter’s cunt, making him moan in surprise yet again. The contact rips through him like lightning, Peter closing his eyes with it as he gives up. Truly, completely, asking, “What's your name?”

“Look at me Peter.”

Opening his eyes, his demon is right in front of him, looking into his eyes with a burning intensity that sears him down to his toes. “What’s your name?” 

“I’ll tell you if you promise to be mine. Give yourself to me completely, without question. Bind yourself to me so that I may hold you with hands that are ours. Wed me before sin and desire in all of its forms, before your god and my ruler. Is this what you want?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Jonah, but I like to be called Elias. For this, you need to use Jonah, though.” Sighing close to him, he continues very precisely, “ _Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins._ You cannot sin if you were _born_ to be one with me. Now say, ‘I’m yours, Jonah.’.”

Peter feels weak, _seen_ in a way he had never felt before. As a member of the church, and as one alone worshiping his God in all of his love, Elias—Jonah—had been right. His prayers had never been answered. So he tried harder and harder until it was evident he would never get an answer. That he was supposed to stay on the path of righteousness and reap the benefits in the next life, and perhaps some in this if God recognized your deeds in His name. But this life refused to be good to him, and Peter _is_ tired of it. Like this, with his hips flush to Elias’s thigh, he wants to know what it is to live. To feel pleasure and power in their most raw sense. 

“I’m yours, Jonah,” it’s said quiet, his hand moving up, uncertainly at first. Then more sure as he pushes his fingers through his hair and pulls Jonah back into a kiss that goes right through him. All at once, it feels like he can finally _breathe_. Like a weight has been lifted off of Peter’s soul as the kiss deepens, opening his mouth into it and moaning when he feels Jonah’s tongue slide against his. 

The feel is wet and hot, unlike any of the cold, unfeeling indifference he has had forced upon him. Beaten down verbally and made to be a solitary person from birth, experiencing nothing but frigid disapproval any time he entered a room if he did anything beside exist in his family’s peripherals. Neglect making him wish to be solitary, and how _good_ it had felt at first. To serve a god who promised you salvation in its arms, that you would be rewarded.

Emptiness was loneliness and loneliness was _cleansing_. 

Cleansing _everything_ , burning it all down into ash. Bringing about the crushing despair and then acceptance of being gone in every sense of the word. The silence of a black hole collapsed on itself. A world where to be alone was to be pure, and where connections would never hurt you. Numbness bringing euphoria, learning to exist outside the need for others.

Believe in The One Alone and you will be _saved_. 

But Peter could never quite get it right. His family had sent him to the seminary where he had studied, and study _well_ he did. Almost until he believed it fully. Until he was favored, and until he could almost trick himself into seeing a brief flicker of pride in the eyes of his mother. Serving their god and doing it right, preaching the message of love and acceptance through repentance and solitary dealings. To be acknowledged as doing right by his family, his God…

 _None of it_ can compare to how it feels as his shame starts dropping away when Jonah pushes two fingers inside easily for how wet Peter is. It feels _good_. And it makes him moan into the man’s mouth. What starts only a little awkwardly for how Peter is draped back against the chair letting it happen instead turns into his body responding like he was meant to. 

Jonah presses his thumb against Peter’s clit and he can't help the sharp inhale against his mouth as the kiss is broken. Still, Peter goes back into another one, _needing_ this kind of connection while he’s fingered open. Needing to be kissed and touched like he would die if he didn't get it. 

Jonah breaks the kiss again, this time kissing Peter on the forehead before he kneels back down in the cramped space of the confessional. “I will give you _everything_ you need, Peter. Say you’re mine again.” He is looking up at Peter fondly, resting his cheek to his knee, waiting. _Watching_.

“I’m yours, Jonah,” moaned out when the man crooks his fingers inside of him, making Peter lose his breath. How wet he is only makes him feel hotter, and it's worse when Jonah kisses up his knee. 

“You can call me Elias now,” there is another wet kiss placed on the sensitive skin of Peter’s thigh. He isn't given a chance to say it though, Elias suddenly pulling his fingers out and pushing his head between Peter’s legs fully, licking him long and slow from bottom to top while he _shouts_ his pleasure. 

The fire in Peter’s veins compels his hands to clench at the soft wood of the confessional booth, nearly splintering under his nails while his orgasm tears through him. Elias keeps going, nose pressing against his clit and tongue deep in his cunt. He feels like he can’t _breathe_ , heaving short breaths that break while his legs scrabble for any sort of balance on the cheap square of carpet on the floor. 

Peter’s legs are shaking from exhaustion even while sitting down, his shirt now soaked with sweat. Elias moans into him, and it makes Peter _ache_ for more. For his tongue, and his lips, his fingers, for _more_. “Dearest, you will get _everything_ you want from me,” Elias says as he pulls back with an obscene string of slick connecting his mouth to Peter’s cunt. “You want my cock so badly it _hurts_ , don’t you my beloved?”

Peter nods, breathless and looking at Elias’ eyes staring right up at him. Through him. He knows what Peter wants so thoroughly that it's hard to feel shame in sheer acceptance. Every single thing his family made him do out of obligation, the abuse he suffered from his rotating nanny staff and from his family themselves. Cold neglect. The hollow feeling creeping into his chest for the first time as a child when he had truly realized for the first time that his silence and obedience were mandatory. Being taught a religion that he knows now to be false from the time he could feel the deep cuts of rejection of warmth. 

All forgotten lessons when Elias pulls Peter up to his feet, the cramped booth immediately becoming smaller while Peter has to balance forward with his weight so he doesn't fall backward with how their legs tangle. He ends up with Elias turning them so Peter’s back is against the booth divider, Elias’ face stopping just short of Peter’s lips while his cunt _drips_ down his thigh. His fingernails scrape against the lightly woven wicker, straining the design toward its tensile breaking point. 

He hears the sound of Elias undoing his belt buckle, followed by his pants pushed down. Then Elias maneuvers himself to sit, turning Peter to face the closed door. Peter is pulled back bodily with Elias’ arm around his waist, the heavy fabric of Peter’s shirt at his lower back making contact with Elias’ cheek. The hand on his stomach claws the cloth up before Elias’ hand pushes down to spread Peter open with his fingers. Elias nuzzles into his back while Peter’s weight slides down until he sinks down fully onto him with a grunt ending in a choked back groan. 

Positioned in Elias’ lap and bent over, the angle is _perfect_ , the rocking of Elias’ hips making them grind flush against one another. “Is that better?” Spoken right against the shell of Peter’s ear, and all he can do is nod in response. “Aren’t you glad you gave yourself to me?”

Peter wouldn’t have been able to answer if he tried, Elias rocking his hips up unforgivingly sharp and dragging a keening whine from him. The pace that’s set is close to brutal, Peter feeling boneless near immediately while he slumps back against Elias’ chest. His hands hang uselessly at his side until Elias picks them up with his own and breaths his instruction to unbutton his shirt. Peter obliges, rewarded with Elias kneading into the soft flesh of his stomach with confident fingers. 

Briefly, he wonders what his family would say if they could see him now, a demon’s cock buried deep in him. He wonders about his false god, how seemingly easily he had been swayed away from lies. Peter is heavily aware of the consequences of this, of craving Elias’ touch enough to bind himself to him—“I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt not have any strange gods before Me,” the first of the ten commandments spoken into his ear before teeth abruptly tug at the cartilage. The point of one of Elias’ canines pierces the flesh, the prick of pain coinciding with Elias tugging hard on a nipple. “The only consequences you will face come from My hand now, dearest.” 

The blood drips down his ear to where Peter can eventually feel it bead on the skin adjacent to his open collar, but he can hardly breathe around his fragmented moaning, let alone care his shirt might get stained. His hips move in tandem with Elias’, grinding down on upward thrusts that has Peter seeing sparks. The sound of his voice is carrying outside of the confessional, Peter can hear the slight echo of the empty church bouncing his passion back at himself, suddenly getting louder—without realizing, he had gripped onto the wobbly doorknob when he had leaned forward, and _now_ the door swings open with a creak.

The cooler air of the church drifts over Peter’s flushed skin as the dim light from the lit candles behind the altar flicker. The sun has gone down in the sky by now, the moon rising outside bright and full opposite the last swirling colors of dusk; Peter should be closing up the church now, locking the door and sweeping the dust from the floor, but his worship is cried out into the open air instead. Bent at the waist and clutching instead to the door frame with one hand and Elias’ knee with the other, Peter weeps out the last dregs of grief for his faith with his second orgasm, his demon’s name on his lips. A moment later, Elias comes inside him with a satisfied sound that gets buried between Peter’s shoulderblades from where Elias’ face presses against his back.

It feels sickeningly _right_ , the foreign sensation of semen making a shiver run down Peter’s spine. It takes a long minute to catch his breath before he stands and gets out of Elias’ lap, stepping out of the booth to more easily pull his slacks up while a mix of their come leaks down Peter’s thighs. He feels boneless, satisfied in a way he can’t begin to comprehend even as the fog of desire recedes. Peter still burns when Elias starts buttoning up his shirt, putting his priest’s collar back in its proper place—there is a spot of blood on the otherwise pristine white of the hard, tight fabric that will be impossible to wash out. A fitting end for the damned accessory.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Podfic for Let Me Climb Your Steps.

  
[Download](https://www.dropbox.com/s/trxr0vcdl24st8x/Let%20Me%20Climb%20Your%20Steps.mp3?dl=0)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG NSFW warning here. this is a fully acted thing, so be warned. hope you enjoy the filth.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA), or on twitter @quickenedsilver.
> 
> this fantastic cover art was done by Jay, who can be found on on tumblr and twitter @gummybyrd and on AO3 @Thetwistingdeceit.


End file.
